Michael Bunker - WICK

Down in the bunker, Veronica tried to make her guests comfortable, but Charlie was beside himself in fear and anger, and it took everything the two women could do to calm the young boy down. Elsie was finally able to get the boy to lie down, and before long, he curled up on a blanket, sobbing into his arms. Elsie decided to give him some time, so she kissed the top of his head, and went to join Veronica.

Veronica sat at the same desk where the inhabitants of the farm had spent many a day and night, holding long vigils after the bombs dropped. She’d sat at this desk, standing her watch over the Geiger counter readout, making tick marks into Clive’s notebook, and sometimes crying—much like Charlie was crying—over the condition of her own son. Now, she was leaned back in the chair. Peter’s backpack was sitting on the desk, and she was touching it softly, her mind in another place, when Elsie walked in.

“I think he might eventually fall asleep,” Elsie said. “Crying takes a lot out of you. I lost my husband in an attack not unlike this one. What was it? Weeks ago?”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Elsie,” Veronica said. “My boy died only a few hours ago. Right next door.”

“Oh, my—,” Elsie said, and put her hand over her mouth.

“They’ll keep his body over there — the Amish will — in a cold room, until spring comes and we can bury him.”

Elsie’s face was frozen in shock.

Veronica raised her hand in gesture of peace. “It looks like all three of us down here have lost our families.”

With that, there was silence for the span of a few minutes. Neither of the two women knew what to say, but they both knew that everything that had happened—all of it—was unspeakable.

After a few more moments, Veronica looked at Elsie and smiled.

“I know this backpack,” she said.

Elsie blinked. “Really? Do you know Peter?”

“I don’t know Peter, but I know this pack.”

“That sounds… impossible,” Elsie said, shaking her head.

Veronica pushed the pack over to Elsie. She was still smiling.

“Oh, I’m not accusing Peter, or anyone else, of stealing it. A lot has happened since all of this began, and I don’t pretend to know what occurrences have led us all here. I’m just speaking factually. I know that pack.” She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face.

“Do me a favor, Elsie, and unzip it. Unless something has changed, or someone repacked it, or… I don’t know… maybe I’m altogether wrong; anyway, there should be a blue box in there. Take it out and open it up.”

Elsie was sitting in stunned disbelief. She didn’t know what to think. She unzipped the bag and, sure enough, there was a small blue box inside the pack.

“What’s in it?” Elsie asked.

Veronica smiled. “When I gave it to Clay, the kind and wonderful man who originally owned that pack, it was just a meaningful gift—a symbol of what I thought he was looking for. Now—,” she stopped. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Now, I’m guessing that Clay is dead, and what’s in that box could very well save this new world of ours.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. You see, it’s a special variety of gourd corn. It’s a non-hybrid seed corn that grows well in almost any environment. It is disease resistant, and it resists crossing with hybridized and manufactured corn varieties. We’re going to need this, Elsie, to save the world.”

Elsie carefully opened the blue box, and in it, was a hefty packet of corn seeds. There was a note too.

Clay,

Sometimes we just need to start anew. We need to plow, and plant, and harvest. Maybe that way, we’ll get past all that we’ve lost.

“That’s you!” Elsie said.

“That’s me,” Veronica replied.

She smiled. She had found her Archimedean point.

“I wonder what happened to Clay?” Elsie asked.

“God knows.”

Elsie sat for a moment, looking at the corn. She glanced over, and through the door, she could see that Charlie, indeed, had fallen asleep.

Veronica noticed too, and she nodded at Elsie. “It sounds like it has either slowed, or stopped up there. I’m going to go up and check things out.”

“Do you think you should?” Elsie asked.

“I don’t know, Elsie, but I’m going to. Do you mind if I take Peter’s pack? If I find him, I’d just like to ask him if he knows what happened to my friend.”

Elsie didn’t mind. She’d lost friends, too.

Inside the RV, Clive and Red Beard were talking. The gunfire outside had slowed for a moment, and they were trying to decide if they should do something other than huddle inside the vehicle.

“We should go check on Veronica,” Red Beard said.

“You’re probably right. She just lost her boy, and now we’re in a gunfight. Wouldn’t hurt to go check on her.”

“Let’s go.”

The two men slowly opened the RV door. There was sporadic gunfire here and there, as the two friends crouched low next to the RV.

In the distance, they could see the lights of the militia contingent. Clive let out a happy yelp, and he slapped Red Beard on the back. “We’re saved!” he said.

“Well, let’s get to Veronica,” Pat said. “There’s Peter, coming around the house, and it looks like Ace is with him. Maybe it’s all clear.”

It wasn’t. More gunfire erupted. Clive watched as the militia vehicles screeched to a stop, and the militiamen started pouring out in every direction. A firefight erupted, just as Clive and Red Beard reached the area where the drive split, with part of it heading towards the barn. Looking to his right, Red Beard saw Cole and Natasha coming from the barn, and he waved for them to stay put.

Ace and Peter were still moving forward towards the RV with their weapons readied, and that was when Red Beard heard Ace shout.

The militia flushed an enemy gunman from the ridge opposite the house, and as he ran from his cover, a militia bullet hit him in the back. He skidded to the ground and rolled and, despite his wound, in one complete motion, he popped up and raised his rifle to fire.

Red Beard saw the gun pointed towards them, and immediately reached for Clive. He seized the older man by the upper arm and, with almost super-human strength, spun him around, tossing him roughly to the ground and out of harm’s way. Three bullets thudded into Red Beard’s chest and neck, and the leprechaun fell to the ground without drama or pretense. Militia guns finished off the wounded attacker with a short burst, but it was too late.

Clive was already up and running towards his fallen friend. He screamed, “No!” at the top of his voice, but it was a useless and fruitless scream.

The shout echoed around the farmyard, bouncing off the buildings and the vehicles before disappearing into the coming night.

The light of the sunset had disappeared into the darkness, and the light of life was fading from Pat Maloney’s eyes. Looking up, he saw his friends, new and old ones, bending over him. Clive was clutching him and had pulled him up into his lap, so that his head now rested against the older man’s chest.

The world was fading into the fogginess of the surreal dream, and Pat was looking from face to face, and trying to speak, though he could not.

His eyes caught a glimpse of the backpack hanging on Veronica’s shoulder, and he reached towards it with his hand, as if there might be in it some savior, some elixir, or some potion that might pull him up from his condition.

He felt himself slipping, as if he were falling into a dungeon, or a prison, and the hand that was reaching towards the backpack was now reaching for anything—anything at all; any strand or rope onto which he might hold that might arrest his fall.